


Whiskey Lullaby

by WhoStarLocked



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Feels, Character Death, Depressing, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, References to Depression, Suicide, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 20:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18645769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoStarLocked/pseuds/WhoStarLocked
Summary: Storyline based on a song called Whiskey Lullaby (by Brad Paisley). This got in my head when I listened to the song and I had to write it.TRIGGER WARNINGS for depression, alcoholism, self-harm, suicide! PLEASE DON'T READ THIS IF THESE SUBJECT MATTERS TRIGGER YOU!When the Avengers get some bad news, things go from bad to worse, and then to really, really fucking shit.





	Whiskey Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own marvel or any of its characters, nor the song that this is inspired by.

“Checkmate!” Clint declared triumphantly as he moved a chess piece on the board in front of him.

Tony stared at the board, at a complete loss. “How?” He asked no one in particular.  Clint grinned.

“Strategy, _genius_.”  He smirked as he picked up his drink and left the table. Tony scowled.

“What strategy? Cheating?”

“Oh, you are a sore loser, Tony.”  Clint teased. Steve shook his head and huffed a laugh at their antics as Tony muttered something under his breath.  Just as the argument was about to continue, the shrill call of the phone split the air.

“Director Fury on the line, sir.” JARVIS interrupted. Clint groaned and flung himself down into a chair.

“I swear to god if he’s calling me for a mission I’ll-”

“Put it through, J.” Tony called, cutting off the archer’s complaint.

“Let me guess, the walking weapon of Hydra has made an appearance.” Clint drawled.

“I… I don’t quite know how to tell you this.” Nick’s voice stuttered through the tower’s sound system.

Clint immediately straightened in his seat, obviously picking up on something in his boss’ voice.

“What is it?” His voice was tight, guarded, just like it was when Natasha was left to tell him that his best friend and handler had been killed by the man he let in the front door of their only real home.

“It’s… It’s, uh, agent Romanoff.”

Steve met Tony’s eyes and saw them filled with dread that was no doubt reflected in his own. Across the room from them, Clint’s face had paled significantly. There was a tense silence that seemed to stretch on for hours as the three men waited for Fury to continue.

“She’s dead.”

* * *

Tony sighed as he walked into Clint’s rooms in the tower and found him inebriated, slouched in the corner of his wardrobe, apparently having passed out whilst getting his funeral attire out to wear the next day. As his eyes filled with tears, he dragged the archer over to his bed and hefted him onto it. Tony unlaced Clint’s boots and yanked them off before covering him with the duvet.

The inventor took a few moments to compose himself before glancing round the room. What he saw made him despair. Empties littered almost every surface and parts of the floor. Next to the wardrobe was a broken bottle of vodka, the clear liquid darkening the surrounding carpet by a shade.

“Oh, Clint.” Tony sighed as he began to pick up bottles left right and centre and look for a bin. When the room was tidier, Tony pulled out the dark-coloured formal suit that was hung to one side of the archer’s wardrobe and left it hanging on the door for him.

Worry gnawed at his belly as he turned his gaze back to his unconscious friend. On a whim, he grabbed a piece of paper from a notepad on Clint’s bedside table and hastily jotted down a note before leaving the room.

Tony heard the others talking in hushed tones as he came back up to the communal level of the tower. Without speaking, he sat down heavily in one of the two chairs around the dinner table that were unoccupied. They’d moved the seventh chair the day after getting the news. Seeing it empty at the table had been too much for more than just Clint.

“Is he coming?” Bruce asked gently, breaking the tense silence that had fallen after Tony’s entrance. Feeling more sorrow and worry swell up, bringing tears and a lump in his throat, Tony had to choke back his answer and settle for a jerky shake of his head. After a few minutes, he felt calmer. When he looked up, Steve and Bruce were watching him with concerned eyes, and Thor sat, playing with the food on his plate and ignoring everyone.

“He’s out.” Tony took a breath and felt yet more tears in his eyes. “The whole floor was just… fucking bottles!” He said, wondering why he was so worked up about it and then realising he didn’t care. “Jesus, Bruce, I… we’re losing him just as much… it’s been two months nearly and he’s just-” Tony sighed. “I just don’t know how to help him.”

Steve placed a warm hand over Tony’s wrist and gave it a comforting squeeze. “We’re not giving up on him.” He answered with what was supposed to be a reassuring smile. Tony was pretty sure Steve knew it wasn’t working.

* * *        

Considering the amount of alcohol he’d consumed the night before, Clint was amazingly sober for the funeral.

“Clint, where’s your suit? Surely you’re not going like that?” Steve asked incredulously as the archer stumbled into the communal area in his SHIELD uniform. Clint shuffled past him in silence and poured a cup of coffee.   

“She wouldn’t have wanted it this way.” He answered morosely, staring into his drink. “She would’ve hated every bit of this. She always did.” Clint cut himself off suddenly, slamming the cup onto the side. “Who even arranged this?” He yelled at the ceiling.

“Clint,” Steve tried interrupted.

“No, seriously!” He continued. “ _We’re_ her friends, for Christ’s sake, not anyone who’s arranged this! She’d have hated it! She-”

“Yeah, do you really think we’re not all thinking the same thing?” Tony snapped back. “You’re not the only one who lost her Clint!”

Clint choked off a sob as he jammed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I can’t lose her! I can’t I can’t, she’s the only person I’ve got!”

“What about us?” Tony yelled. “Don’t we matter to you?”

“But you’re not Natasha and you’re not Phil!” Clint screamed. “God, you don’t- you _can’t_ understand this.” He added as he left.

Tony rolled his eyes. “Why are spies all so fucking dramatic?”

* * *

After the service, the team all steadily made themselves comfortable in the communal area of the tower. For a while, they made small conversation as they sipped at coffees. When Clint got up and left suddenly, Steve sighed.

“I wish I knew what to do to help.”

Bruce chuckled mirthlessly. “Don’t we all?” He shifted in his chair. “Well, I suppose we’ve seen the last of him for today.”

“Probably.” Tony sighed. “He’s probably hit the bottle already.”

Clint appeared round the corner, bottle in hand. “Actually, I… thought I’d share this one with you all.” He answered.  He ducked his head awkwardly; in his hand shot glasses rattled. “She… her… whenever… she would’ve… wanted. You don’t have to bother it’s just-”

“The best thing anyone’s said all day.” Steve cut in with a smile, reaching out and taking a glass. Clint gave him a grateful smile.

“What’re we drinking?” Tony asked cautiously.

“Vodka.” Clint answered, pouring out the rest of the glasses.

“Aw, what the hell.” The genius muttered. “It’s what she’d have done, right?”

“Right.” Clint said, passing Tony a glass.

“To Natasha.” Bruce announced, raising his glass in a toast.

“To Natasha.” The others all chorused before drinking their shots.

* * *

“Y’know,” Clint slurred as he leaned on Tony’s shoulder. “She always tried to get me drunk. It annoyed Phil so much.” He broke off as he stifled a fit of giggles into Tony’s side. “She says I’m a giggly drunk. Says she likes it.”

“Yeah, I’d never have guessed that.” Tony sighed as he helped the inebriated archer into his room. Clint burst into another fit of giggles.

“You should really have got to know them both. They’re great.” Clint stopped suddenly, frowning, and Tony hurriedly stepped backwards to stop him falling as Clint wobbled. “Were great.” He corrected, swallowing. Then he snorted. “My best friends are dead.” Tony sighed and looked away as Clint made a noise that could’ve been a laugh or a cry.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.” Tony lowered Clint down onto his bed and silently began undoing Clint’s boots. When he was done, Clint was watching him in silence.

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly, looking away. Tony paused, the duvet he’d been pulling down the bed mostly forgotten in his hands.

“For what, Clint?” He asked quietly, heart thumping painfully against his chest. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer – it could range anywhere from Clint just having realised Tony was having to help him to bed to Tony didn’t even know what.

“That I’m the one who-”

“Hey, no!” Tony interrupted, crouching down in front of Clint and grasping hold of his arms. Clint looked up at him blearily. “None of that, Clint.”

“They were so much better than me.” Clint whispered as he slipped off the bed into Tony’s arms, sobbing.

“Clint-” Tony began. He stopped when he came to the realisation that he had no fucking clue what to say.

“It should have been me that died.”

“Don’t think that.” Tony answered sharply to Clint’s whispered confession. “Don’t you dare think for a minute that things would be better if it was you that had died.”

Clint sniffed against Tony’s shoulder. “But they would be.”

Tony stiffened. He stood up, yanking Clint with him and pushing the archer onto his back in the bed. “You’re drunk, Clint. You’re not thinking straight.” Without pausing, Tony turned and walked out of the room.

It was only when he got to his own room he realised he was trembling.

“Jarvis, if he starts drinking again, or does anything that looks remotely harmful, wake me up, okay?” Tony asked through gritted teeth as he climbed into his own bed.

“Agent Barton is sleeping, sir.” Jarvis replied solemnly.

“Just keep me posted.” Tony sighed, closing his eyes and wishing for a sleep he knew wouldn’t come.

* * *

“Sir, Agent Barton has purchased several bottles of alcohol, and appears to be preparing a drink for himself.” JARVIS cut over the film that was playing in the communal space.

“You’re tracking him?” Steve asked. He didn’t even sound shocked anymore, just quietly resigned to Tony’s intrusions.

“The night of the funeral, he started apologising for being the one out of strike team delta that lived.” Tony explained evenly, still seemingly fixated on the TV.  “I was worried that he might, uh, well... it seemed justified to ask for updates at the time.”

Dragging his gaze away from the screen, Tony found the others were all staring at him.

“And did he?” Bruce asked, tone weirdly restrained. Tony sighed, switching off the TV before turning to fully face them.

“He woke up at two that morning, spent about an hour sat with a knife in his hands.” Suddenly weary, Tony rubbed at his eyes. “He’s done similar kind of things regularly enough since then that I’m still worried.”

“But he’s not actually hurt himself?” Thor asked, sounding pained.

“Once,” Tony answered. “But honestly, it seemed more like an accident. It was barely a cut, hardly bled. If he was planning to top himself that time, he chickened out.”

Across from him, Bruce winced.

“We need to draw him out of himself. He needs to see that we’re here for him.” Steve said, frowning across the room.

Tony pulled a face.

“We can do all the demonstrating in the world, Steve, but he’s not gonna see what he doesn’t want to.”

Tony felt even guiltier when Steve’s shoulders dropped.

“We should still try.” Thor intoned quietly.

“Agent Barton has now consumed approximately seven shots of vodka, and does not show signs of stopping drinking, sir.” JARVIS announced.

Tony scrubbed at his eyes with both hands, feeling like a complete failure for no reason that he could pinpoint.

* * *

They spent the next few days going out of their way to check up on Clint, not that the archer appreciated it much.

They even got Fury on board with it. That worried Tony more than anything. It made his fears that Barton would actually consider taking his own life seem much more justified.

After three weeks, it seemed like maybe Clint was starting to get better. He made an effort to appear at meal times. He didn’t always eat, and he didn’t always interact with them, but he showed up, and it was a vast improvement.

Bruce had cooked a chilli, and it felt rude not to offer Barton a beer, considering everyone else had one. But, when Tony held one out to him, Clint merely shook his head.

“I, uh.” He cleared his throat, dropped his gaze to the table. “I asked JARVIS to track the units and set a limit.”

Tony was floored. It was a double-admission, given in a way that none of them could address. Given the way Clint had tensed up, and had yet to actually look up or start eating, Tony knew if they started asking questions like _‘it’s six thirty in the evening, why the hell are you already at your limit?’_ or ‘ _What_ is _the limit_?’ or any of the dozens of questions swirling in Tony’s mind that it could potentially send Clint backwards in progress.

Instead, Tony considered him as he returned to his seat, trying to gauge what Clint’s reaction would be.

“Smart.” He replied quietly. Clint sent him a shaky smile as they started eating, and Tony felt a tiny spark of hope in his chest.

Conversation struck up as Pepper joined them, and even though Clint didn’t speak again, he hung round for a while after they’d finished eating, and the evening felt like a milestone.

* * *

It happened a month after that.

Clint seemed to have been getting better.

He’d sobered up.

He’d rejoined them for training.

He’d started actually interacting with them.

In retrospect, Tony realized that none of the interactions were meaningful, but, it had still seemed like progress. They’d agreed, there’d been enough progress that Tony cancelled the updates from JARVIS.

But they’d underestimated him. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.

In his background scanning, JARVIS had noted anomalies in Clint’s biological scan. JARVIS was clever, but, with his parameters set purely to a scan function, he failed to link together his readings and formulate the obvious conclusion. He merely informed Tony that there were anomalies.

“Such as?” Tony asked, still frowning at the blueprints for a suit update.

“Significantly lower core body temperature, low blood pressure, slower pulse.” JARVIS listed off, completely unaware of the sheer dread infiltrating Tony’s mind. Because that sounded like...

“JARVIS, tell the others to meet me on his floor!” Tony ordered, sprinting from his lab.

The elevator could not move fast enough. As soon as the doors slid open Tony burst into the apartment, heading for Clint’s bedroom.

The door was locked.

“Clint!” He yelled, banging on the door with his fist. “Clint! Let me in!”

There was no response.

Panicking, Tony whirled round and started searching frantically around him until he found what he was looking for.

Checking the ammunition, he pointed the gun at the lock, holding steady.

“Clint, I’m shooting the lock! Move away from the door!” He called. After another minute he fired. He flung the door open, mind nearly whiting-out with panic as he stepped into the room and-

He aborted his steps as suddenly as he’d started them.

He was way too late.

Clint was lying on the bed-sheet, eyes closed, fingers resting lightly on an envelope. He looked peaceful. He could easily appear to be asleep, if not for the glistening pool of dark red saturating the sheets around him.

 Tony sagged against the wall.

“Damn,” He sighed. With monumental effort, he forced himself forwards, automatically going through the motions of checking for a pulse.

He was still warm, but there was no hope.

Tony let gravity take him, mind going completely numb. He found himself absently carding a hand through Clint’s hair. He let his head hang, trying to take a few deep breaths.

“Clint? Tony?” Steve called, edging round the door. Tony looked up at Steve’s sharp intake of breath. “Is he..?”

Tony smiled grimly.

“He’s gone.”  Tony answered quietly.

* * *

That evening was a quiet one. Fury and Hill had come over to the tower when Bruce called, and they dealt with the body.

Tony managed to hold it together until Nick hugged him, reverently thanking Tony for trying. Then, the tears spilled. Nick didn’t say anything, nor did anyone else. Tony smiled at him as he wiped his eyes dry, but it felt as hollow as it probably looked.

“What was in the note?” Thor asked some time later.  Steve stirred, glancing at the envelope that had been left on the table with a sigh.

“Basically he said that he’s sorry, but he didn’t feel like he could carry on without Natasha, and that he doesn’t want us to be upset, because now he’ll be at peace.”  He summarized.

“Fuck,” Tony said gently. “just... fuck.”

Beside him, Pepper sniffed.

“I never realized that he and Nat were together, or I’d have made more of an effort to be there.” She said, voice wobbly.

Tony frowned.

“They weren’t.”

Pepper returned his frown. “But... he wrote ‘I’ll love her ‘til I die’ in there.”

“Yeah, like... siblings. Weirdly close siblings.” Tony explained.

“Still, I never realised they were that close.”

Bruce hummed quietly from across the room.

“He said that he’d lost both his best friends, and it felt like there was no one left who fully understood him, and accepted every part of him.” 

“He never gave us the chance!” Tony retorted hotly, scrubbing his face with his hands.

“He was depressed.” Bruce replied lightly. “It’s hard to try and let people close when you’re grieving and fighting your own mind about whether you deserve to be alive.”

“I just can’t believe that they’re both gone.” Thor said, his voice barely a whisper.

Tony could agree with that one.  

* * *

4 months later

* * *

Tony was concentrating on his suit repairs when it happened. JARVIS threw up a security tape from the tower lobby, quietly telling him that he’d want to see it.

Frankly, Tony was not sure that JARVIS had been right.

But it gave him two minutes to get his head around what he was seeing before she casually waltzed into his living room after damn near nine months.

She walked in confidently, tired smile in place as she said:

“So, I’m alive.”

He felt anger flare in his chest at her blasé tone. Next to him, Bruce inhaled sharply and Steve paled. Thor actually shook his head, blinking repeatedly.

“Well, that’s certainly not the response I was expecting.” She sighed, dumping a bag next to her. She sauntered into the kitchen, grabbing a drink.  “Where’s Clint, anyway?”

Tony’s jaw clenched.

“Oh, he went out. I can take you to see him?” He offered, ice in his tone.

Either Nat was oblivious, or she was willing to bet that the hostility was due to her unannounced return to life.

She smiled and gave him a brief nod.

“I’d appreciate that.”  

Tony gestured back to the elevator, and followed her as she strode out.

* * *

“I’m sorry it came to faking my death. I can’t imagine that Clint took it well.” She told him once they were driving.

“You could say that.” Tony replied, managing through sheer willpower to keep his voice neutral.

She hummed.

“God knows he was cut up enough by Coulson. I tried every avenue, but I had no way out. Had to go to ground in Russia for the winter. Let me tell you, it’s not fun.” 

“Well, we’re here.”  Tony said, parking the car. There was the slightest feeling of guilt coiling in his gut, but it was effortlessly outweighed by the burning anger that she could do this to them and think she could just swan in as if nothing had changed.

“This is a graveyard.” Natasha said, looking around the grounds.  “Is this where they ended up burying Coulson?”

“This way.” Tony called, setting off down the painfully familiar path.

“Stark, what the hell are you playing at?” Natasha demanded, tone hostile as Tony stopped at the foot of the relatively fresh grave.

He gestured, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat.

“You wanted to see him. Here we are.” He said tonelessly.

Natasha stared at him for a moment before glancing at the headstone. Tony felt nothing but icy satisfaction as the blood drained from her face.

“N...nh...no!” She whispered, voice trembling. She gently dropped to one knee, hand reaching out towards to marble as if she could remove the name there.

Within minutes, she was sobbing his name, arms wrapped around her midriff.  Still kneeling, she turned to look at Tony.

“What happened?”  She asked, breathless.

Tony regarded her in silence for a moment. How did he soften the blow? _Oh, fuck it_ , he decided. They were the Black Widow and Tony Stark, after all. They didn’t do softened blows.

“His best friend died.”

* * *

She cried again when she read the letter. And when she saw what they’d done with his bow.

 It was mounted on the wall in the living room.

It had been Steve’s idea, really. A means to remember him by, and a warning that they couldn’t let anyone else slip through the net.  

“I just don’t understand.” She said quietly. She looked lost, small. Utterly defeated.

For the first time ever, Tony believed that she was being genuine.

“None of us did.” Steve answered softly.

* * *

Tony fucking hated déjà vu.

He was, undoubtedly, watching history repeat itself.

But if it had been hard to try and save Clint, it was damn near impossible to try and salvage Natasha. At least Clint had been so drunk that he was catatonic. He sighed as he lifted the ice pack back off his eye.

The bruise was purple.

Because apparently, Natasha was a violent drunk.

“You okay?” Steve asked, leaning on the doorframe behind Tony.

“Peachy.” Tony answered bluntly. “We’ve discovered a window to the past, what’s not to love?”

Steve’s expression fell momentarily before it steeled.

“It’s not going to happen again.” He replied stubbornly. Tony sighed. He didn’t have the energy to argue with a defensive Steve Rogers.

“Right.” He muttered.

* * *

She deteriorated far quicker than Barton.

Tony didn’t know how the hell Steve thought that they could save her.  Everything they’d tried with Barton was met with cold hostility and violence.  He felt numb. He thought, maybe, that it was his way of trying to gain distance, so that when the inevitable came about, there wasn’t as much emotion.

“Agent Romanoff is opening her bottle of whiskey, sir.” JARVIS told him quietly. Next to him in their bed, Pepper winced.

“Thanks, J. Keep an eye on her, please.”  Tony sighed.

Whiskey. Tony was never going to get his head around that. There was something almost poetic about it, though. The American drank vodka, the Russian drank bourbon.  

“That’s her third bottle this week.” Pepper commented quietly.

Tony tried to ignore the stab of pain in his chest at the thought.

“I know.”

“She’s not getting any better.”

“I know.”

“Maybe we need to make her go to a support group.”  

He scoffed. “Good luck.”

Pepper sighed and shuffled in the bed, turning off her bedside light as she did so. It was about an hour before her breathing evened out.

Tony watched her with a soft smile, knowing he wouldn’t sleep tonight.  He’d lost track of the time when his phone vibrated, and reluctantly he glanced at the screen.

_Agent Romanoff has started a second bottle of whiskey_

He sighed, letting his head fall back against the headboard.

* * *         

The next morning, Tony was surprised and relieved to find Natasha in the kitchen, albeit nursing a strong black coffee, at nine.

“How’s things?” He asked, offering her a slight smile as he rummaged through the cupboards.

“Don’t pretend you don’t have your robot spying on me.” She snapped back, although it was lacking her usual bite.

“Yeah, well, one person already died because I let him convince me that I didn’t need my robot to spy on him!” Tony retorted, turning abruptly to face her. Natasha winced so hard she barely kept from dropping her cup.

“So, what? My life’s important to you so you don’t have to feel bad about his death?” She hissed.

Tony let out an exasperated growl from the back of his throat.

“Your life is important to me because I care about you! It’s important because we thought we’d already lost you! It’s important because we already lost one teammate, and I don’t want to lose another!”

“You just want the guilt to go away.” She spat at him, glaring daggers.

“You’re wrong, Nat.” Steve intoned quietly from behind Tony. “Trust me, we care about you.”

She didn’t reply, just dumped her coffee in the sink and stormed out.

* * *

Clint had at least had the guts to try and let them help him. He’d acquiesced to meals and small conversations, and even sobered up before deciding he still wanted out.

Natasha never got that far. He had known that she wouldn’t.

She was dressed in her combat gear, curled up small on her bed. It was scary how vulnerable she looked, her fiery hair billowing around her head, cold, grey hands clutching at a photo frame.

There was no doubt that it was, technically, an accident.

The fact that she’d clearly been preparing to commit suicide was undeniable. After all, one of her many knives was glistening pristinely on the bedside table, sharpened to perfection. Next to it was a half-written note.

But there was still no doubt that she embraced death when it came.

The death certificate would have to read alcohol poisoning, Tony knew. They technically had no way of proving that it was intentional. They didn’t need to prove it to themselves, anyway. They knew.

  Tony hated that he had to be the one to tug the photo away from her. He hated that he was the one who found her. He hated that Steve was going to cry, and blame himself. He hated that this would be the second time in a year Bruce would have to call Fury to dispose of a body. He hated that he couldn’t save them.

He hated that the picture was of Clint. He was wearing combat gear, bow in hand, battered and bruised, but still grinning at the camera, lazily saluting. Absently, Tony wondered if it was aimed at Coulson or Fury. 

* * *

It took Tony weeks of nagging to get SHIELD to bury them next to each other.

He kept his gaze on the pair of headstones as everyone else slowly made their way to the cars. No doubt they were going to the wake.

Once he was alone, he shifted, standing evenly between the two graves.

“I’m so sorry. For both of you.” He started, voice wavering.

“I keep thinking about how I could’ve done things differently. If I could’ve made you wait, Clint... just four months and this would never have happened.” He sighed, rubbing at his brow.

“Oh, what the hell? What’s done is done. I hope you guys are happy, and together, wherever you are now.”

Tony glanced up momentarily as the willow tree behind the graves swayed lightly in the non-existent breeze.  He leveled a smile at the weeping fronds, tucked his hands in his pockets.

“Tell Phil I said hi.”

As he sauntered away up the path, he felt the air shift behind him, and a cool draught in his hair. He basked in the lingering sensation, content that they were content as he reached the group of people waiting for him. Steve’s arm wrapped around his shoulders as they continued to the car.

Tony watched their graves as the car pulled away, and maybe it was tears in his eyes and sentiment in his heart, but he swore he could see two faint figures embracing.


End file.
